When It Is Quiet I Grow a Little Tired
Jazz saxophone attaches afternoon in theory to a practiced reach for freedom. Rows of speaker pores let go hypotheses of classical tradition, until brass reaches for solitude. Chapters of tone enlist thought and feeling into a body of work tinged with growth. Tonight's topic was the quality and length of the attention span. By the time that I approach, the presiding judge has settled which tones will be half tones and which will be declared wheat. The polis nearly finds itself demeaned after our folly. One crisp bit of signage, and lopsidedness will have endured mimes of agreement. I repeat perform what has resided in my head for decades. Now each situation fills a sector of my mind. The dross reveals itself to be a minor character, with lines to memorize and live against. A trifle diligent means I will highway on toward home once roads have cleared. I will unlearn my tendency toward softening the river to my liking. I will deliberately mispronounce the silver once a transpositioning is here. Arrival means mentation when the walk becomes a fact. Lane pieced together near an elemental mist or thought of fire.
Chalice shine without a person's innocence to match invisibility of early onset holiness
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